


not much like a lover

by scheherazade



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mesut Özil: Secret Diary of a Call Boy, hooker!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-10
Updated: 2011-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:12:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whenever anyone asks, Mesut laughs and says that it doesn’t matter how he got into his line of work, he doesn’t really remember anyway. Except that’s a lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not much like a lover

He traces the curve of Sami's shoulder, thinks about following with his mouth to suck on the side of his neck, on the spot that makes Sami rumble contentment and throw his head back as he melts under Mesut's hands and tongue. And normally he would, but right now he's not really thinking about that as much as he's distracted by the thought of,

"Spain." The word sits strange on his lips. "Why Spain?"

Sami catches Mesut's hand, holds it loosely over his chest. Mesut can feel his heartbeat, sort of. If he listens. He puts his head down beside his hand and listens closer: there.

"Mourinho's the best coach in the world," says Sami. "He called me. I was already going to say yes, but he called me to talk it over. He's that kind of a coach."

"But won't you miss Germany?"

Sami shrugs. "I'll still get to come back and see―everyone. We've got Euros."

The pause doesn't escape Mesut's notice. He slides his ankle up, hooks his leg over Sami's thigh. He feels Sami's pulse pick up. Mesut allows himself a small, satisfied smile.

"Will you miss _me_?"

In the split second's pause that follows, Mesut thinks shit, wrong question, wrong timing, because Sami has always had sort of a thing for him and he _knows_ that and _god_ this is going to be awkward, not to mention inconvenient and completely unprofessional―

Except then Sami laughs, "Tease."

―and Mesut breathes an inaudible sigh of relief.

"Shut up. You like it." He pulls himself up, one hand clinging to Sami's shoulder and the other planted on the bed for balance. Sami pulls him in for a kiss, his hand warm on the back of Mesut's neck. It's a bit slower than Mesut likes―and slower than he has time for, as he catches a glimpse of the bedside clock―so he presses down, insistent. That gets him a low groan, followed by teeth sharp on his lips. Mesut bites right back and grinds their hips together again.

And yeah, Sami definitely likes it. Mesut can feel him hardening in his shorts. Good thing he'd gotten them out of the rest of their clothing already because the way Sami is looking at him now, he's just as likely to rip Mesut's shirt as tug it gently over his head. Not that the thought isn't appealing.

He kicks off his own boxers and while Sami is busy palming his ass, Mesut gets his fingers under the waistband of Sami's shorts and tugs them, nudges them down the rest of way with his foot. Sami dips one finger between his asscheeks, and pauses.

"You already―"

Mesut sighs at the vaguely wounded look on Sami's face. For all his rough, tough posturing, the guy is kind of a hopeless romantic. And a completely impractical one at that. Mesut turns and pulls on Sami's shoulder so when his back hits the bed Sami rolls over him, on top.

"This is my job," Mesut explains for what feels like the umpteenth time.

"But I'm the first one here tonight." Sami actually manages to sound put-out.

Too bad the hard length pushing against Mesut's stomach says otherwise. "And I still stretch beforehand. I mean, you wouldn't play without warming up. It's the same thing." He rubs his thumb over Sami's lower lip. "Nothing personal, alright?"

Sami doesn't say anything to that, just dips forward and kisses him again. His hand slides under Mesut's thigh, then up, bending him at the knee. Mesut makes an encouraging sound. Tips his head back to give Sami access and reaches for the condom packet on the nightstand. Sami fists his hand in Mesut's hair when Mesut tries to pull away to speak, chases the protest back with his tongue, licking into the corners of his mouth, and Mesut wishes he they could just keep going for a while, because this is kind of nice―but he has two more appointments after this and a flight to Cologne in the morning, so.

He wraps both legs around Sami's waist and slides their cocks against each other, waits until he hears Sami moan deep in his throat, then breaks the kiss with a gasp. Not entirely fake. Neither is the slight catch in his voice when he says,

"Fuck me. Now. Please?"

Sami likes it when he begs, as evidenced by the fact that it almost always works, and today is no exception. Mesut lets his head fall back―catches a glimpse of the time, thinks they'll probably make it, though they definitely wouldn't have if he'd let Sami prepare him now instead of doing it himself―relaxes as Sami pushes in. Waits a moment to let Mesut adjust before he begins to move.

And that's another thing about Sami: he's always considerate. The other guys are nice, too, of course. Some of them probably nicer than Sami in general. But in bed, Sami is the one who always does these stupid little things like waiting or wanting or being careful not to leave bruises, even though Mesut doesn't mind. Mesut almost wishes they could be rough, wishes Sami would fuck him a little harder when Mesut digs his heels into the small of Sami's back and moans his encouragement. But if Sami wants more, he's never said anything, and he keeps coming back, so Mesut figures if this is what gets him off, then this is what they'll do.

Which is also why he lets Sami push him against the headboard after. After the used condom has gone into the trash and Mesut is still hard, but one glance at the clock tells him it's ten 'til, so they don't really have time for much else. He lets Sami push him back anyway, lets him rip open another condom packet with his teeth and roll it on with fingers almost too practiced for an amateur. Because Sami likes this, too. Likes sucking him off as if Mesut is the one getting his money's worth and not the other way around.

The worst part is that he's _good_ at it. Mesut bites his lip as Sami brings him over the edge, shuddering all the way down to his toes. He slumps into the pillows. Rolls his eyes a bit at Sami's self-satisfied smile.

"You get any better at cocksucking and I'll be out of a job," Mesut says idly, running three fingers through Sami's sweat-damp hair.

Sami leans into it a bit, turns his head to the side. "Lucky for you I'm going to Madrid, I guess."

While Mesut searches for an appropriate response to that, Sami twines their fingers together and presses a kiss to the inside of Mesut's wrist.

Later, Mesut holds the door for him. "Good luck with everything."

"Thanks," Sami replies. He pauses. "I'll still see you when I come back for international duty?"

"Sure, if I'm still working for the national team." Mesut steps back before Sami can work out whatever words are on his mind. Softly but firmly he says, "Good night, then."

Being the kind of guy he is, Sami has no choice but to say, "Good night," and let Mesut shut the door in his face.

-

Whenever anyone asks, Mesut laughs and says that it doesn’t matter how he got into his line of work, he doesn’t really remember anyway. Except that’s a lie. Because he remembers it started with an end, like this:

Gelsenkirchen, October, a Saturday afternoon and his fifteenth birthday just around the corner. He was due to leave the academy next week, since he’d failed his last medical and one of the assistant directors had called him in to the office on Thursday and told Mesut that was all, they were very sorry but it seemed that would be all. Of course they would be glad to write him references if, in the future, he chose to pursue a related field of work. Like sports medicine. Or something in club administration. But that was all. They wished him the best of luck.

Mesut spent his last few days packing and avoiding the other boys’ awkward sympathy. The only one he could stand to talk to was Manuel. Manuel, who listened to his story then hugged him, once, and said point blank, "But you’re going to stay with the club, of course."

He didn’t even frame it like a question, as if anything else were unthinkable. It probably was, for Manuel. Mesut tossed some socks into a duffel bag and sat back down beside his roommate.

"I’m no good at school," he told Manuel. "I won’t get anywhere if I can’t play."

"You can work with the coaching staff." Manuel had that determined look on this face, the one he wore when he was studying for penalty shoot-outs or staring down a striker from the opposing team, the face that said he was going to _win_ dammit, or if _he_ couldn’t then _you_ sure weren’t going to either. "You’re decent with people. Everyone likes you."

And normally Mesut would rather die than admit it, but Manuel said it so matter-of-factly that he just shook his head, "That’s not the same. They think I’m cute."

"Well, you are. And they do like you. I like you."

Mesut shrugged. They sat like that for a while, the silence companionable if a little sad, to look at Mesut’s side of the room demolished by the process of packing your life into a couple cardboard boxes and bags knowing you’ll never be able to come back, not really, not the same. Manuel’s side was still a mess of posters and unmade sheets and above all else blue.

Blue like the t-shirt that Mesut pulled on later as he got ready for bed. He wasn’t sleepy yet, but Manuel had already turned off his light, so Mesut didn’t notice until the shirt was over his head and the hem came down nearly to his knees: it was one of Manuel’s, one he’d borrowed when he’d forgotten to do laundry.

The cotton was old and worn soft with washing. Comfortable to sleep in, but Mesut couldn’t sleep. He wondered if Manuel liked him enough to let him keep the t-shirt when Mesut left for home. He wondered if Manuel would be disappointed in him for not staying. He wondered what other choice he had. Manuel said people liked him, but being liked wasn’t exactly enough to base a job on. Usually.

But he did want Manuel to like him.

When he heard a soft snore from the other side of the room, Mesut knew he could creep out of bed without disturbing his roommate. He padded barefoot into the hallway, glanced around to make sure no one was around, and called home. Mutlu answered; their parents were out visiting friends.

Mesut said, "I’m leaving on Wednesday. But I can’t come home yet."

"What? Why not?"

"I don’t know. I just need to," but he didn’t know what he needed, not exactly, only that his shirt was borrowed and blue and his feet still kicked in his sleep, so he told his brother, "Don’t worry, I’ll stay with friends. Tell mom and dad for me."

He hung up and went back inside. Manuel was a shape in the darkness to his right. Mesut crawled into bed and tangled his legs in the blankets. He lay awake fingering the edge of Manuel’s old t-shirt, growing half-formed ideas into dreams, and thought to himself that he wanted to―had to―stay.

-

He doesn’t have favorites, because playing favorites is unprofessional, but he does like Per.

Per isn’t like Thomas or Poldi, doesn’t crack jokes like breathing and doesn’t tease Mesut just to see him blush. But he makes Mesut laugh anyway because Per is weird but kind and says what he thinks. His legs are a little too long for the bed and his elbows are always getting in the way of everything, which tends to make an adventure of anything more complicated than a blowjob, but Per just laughs it off. Mesut likes his smile.

It's Per he's thinking of as he heads to Bremen in August. He doesn’t hope, but he wonders if Per will call.

The DFB has set him up in a little house for the week, and he’s just finished unpacking his clothes when his phone starts ringing and doesn’t stop for a full three minutes. Mesut helps himself to a bottle of water from the fridge and lets the calls go to voicemail. One of the first things he learned was to let them approach on their own terms. This is the best way.

When he checks his messages later, sure enough, one of them is from Per. Mesut can’t help the smile as he listens:

" _Hey, it’s Per. Thought I’d get in line before you’re too busy. Kind of like going shopping early when there’s a big rush for a sale, right? Actually I’m okay any evening, so you schedule around what works for you. Drop me a line when you know what time’s good, okay? Okay._ "

Mesut clicks ‘9’ to save and fishes for his organizer to pencil in Per’s name for Monday. The next message starts to play. It’s just silence for a few seconds, and Mesut wonders if it’s one of the new kids, someone who’s never called him before, but then:

" _Hello? Hello― Hi, sorry. This is Marko and my new phone is shit, sorry. So I heard you’re in town this week and, um, I’d like to see you. If you’ve got any available times, that is. Monday or Tuesday is best. Thanks._ "

Mesut looks over his organizer. He has a teleconference with Loew and Dr. Wohlfahrt early Tuesday morning, and getting up before nine is chore enough without having worked two sessions the night before. He puts Marko down for Tuesday.

Cellular malfunctions aside, the messages Marko leaves him these days are a far cry from the first time, last summer. Mesut was coming up on the end of his week in Hamburg when a call came in from a number he’d never seen before. The message in his voicemail didn’t sound so much awkward as it did terrified, and though Mesut was already booked through his departure on Saturday, he shuffled a few appointments around and made time for Marko late Friday evening.

The young man who showed up on his doorstep had an expression to match the tone in the message. No surprise, really, since Mesut had gotten voicemail on the second ring when he called back to confirm the time. At least he was here; Mesut had half-expected a no-show.

He put on an easy smile. "Marko?"

That got him a stiff nod and a proffered hand, "Yes. Nice to meet you." They shook, Mesut amused and Marko tense, and Mesut invited him inside.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Mesut gestured Marko toward an armchair and headed for the kitchen. He could feel Marko staring after him. "I’m not allowed to give you anything alcoholic, but there’s juice and soda."

"Just water," said Marko. "Thank you."

So formal. Mesut returned with two bottles of water and perched on the sofa adjacent to the armchair. If Mesut thought sitting any farther away would help stop Marko’s fidgeting, he would. He’d done everything else he could think of to make this as non-threatening as possible: he’d cleaned the room thoroughly after Wiese had gone; the futon was folded up, all the lights were on, and Mesut was wearing a plain t-shirt and loose-fitting jeans. Socks, even. Anyone who walked in on them wouldn’t even look twice at the scene―except maybe to ask why Marko seemed on the verge of jumping up and running out the back door.

Mesut watched Marko twist open his water bottle, saw his gaze dart from his face back to the coffee table quick as a hare. Mesut took a sip of his own water while Marko studied a pile of magazines. Mostly football and video game related, and mostly for show, since Mesut had never read any of them. The only things they were good for were padding his suitcase―and starting a conversation, in dire need.

"Do you play?" he asked, and at Marko’s questioning look, added, "FIFA."

Marko nodded. "A bit. I used to play more back home. The new one is really good, though, especially the on-pitch stuff."

"Yeah, feels pretty real. Not the same as having a ball at your feet, but it’s good."

"You play football?" asked Marko. He sounded genuinely curious.

Mesut allowed himself a small smile, "Not anymore, but when I was a kid," and told Marko about growing up in Gelsenkirchen.

They traded stories of academy days, anecdotes and idle gossip about their peers. Mesut had known several of the current national team back when he was fourteen, and met them again at eighteen when the DFB hired him for this job. Marko filled him in where he could on the intervening years, his trepidation melting slowly into laughing words.

Mesut noted the things that made him laugh and filed those away for future reference.

"You’re not what I expected," Marko said eventually. The tips of his ears turned a little red. "I mean. I didn’t know what you were like."

Mesut gave him a smile. "Did I make a good first impression?"

"Definitely."

The whole evening Marko had been sitting at the edge of his seat, poised, only now he leaned toward Mesut rather than the door. That was a good sign. He doubted he was going to get a better sign that that, actually, so Mesut smiled again and patted the space on the sofa beside him.

"Come sit. You don’t seem comfortable in that armchair."

Marko’s blush didn’t go away, but he crossed the distance and sat down. Their knees bumped together. Marko said, "It’s a bit bright, isn’t it?"

"I can take care of that."

Mesut reached for the light switch on the wall behind the sofa. The motion hitched up the edge of his shirt; he saw Marko glance down at the strip of exposed skin.

"Should we, um, go upstairs?"

Mesut flicked off the lights, caught the hand Marko had half-extended, reaching for him, and guided it to his waist. He shifted closer to hear Marko let out a small breath.

"Here’s fine."

So that was the first time. They went over by about twenty minutes thanks to all the chit-chat at the beginning, but Mesut knew it had been worth it when Marko bid him goodnight at the door, after, and asked when he would be in the area again.

"I’ll be in Bremen in two weeks, so you won’t have to drive out to Hamburg again." Mesut smiled at the sheepish look that crossed Marko’s face. "You’ll call me?"

"Of course," said Marko. "Good night. I’ll call you in two weeks."

And he did―and the time after that, too. By now it’s routine. Marko calls him whenever he comes up north, and Mesut doesn’t keep magazines on the coffee table anymore.

Mesut smiles to himself as he listens through the rest of his messages. Frings. Jansen. Loew, calling to confirm about Tuesday. Mesut makes a mental note to send an email subtly reminding the national team coach that this number is for the players only and, unless it’s an emergency, Mesut really prefers if Loew contacts him via email like a normal person. Unless he actually wants to make an appointment, in which case―well. Mesut isn’t even going to go there. He's pretty sure it's not part of his contract.

He clears out his voicemail and pulls up his contacts list. Updates Marko’s number, then starts making calls to confirm the appointment times he’s drawn up. It’s not shaping up to be a particularly busy week, which is a relief.

On Sunday, he’s flying back to Munich. He’ll have more than enough work then.

-

Dr. Wohlfahrt was a brilliant man if eccentric and, according to some, more than halfway mad. But there was no denying that his methods worked. The athletes he'd cured could more than vouch for that, no matter how outlandish his ideas seemed at first glance. Which was all well and fine, but Mesut still thought this particular idea was a little stranger than usual. He wasn't sure he hadn't misheard, actually.

"Sorry," he said. "You want me to train in what kind of therapy?"

"It's not an established field of medicine." Dr. Wohlfahrt placed his elbows on the conference table and steepled his fingers, peering over them at the boy sitting opposite. "But efficacy often hasn't much to do with credentials, and when it comes to the degree of specializing often needed for our profession, there is something to be said for an open mind. You are fifteen? I trust you've had your sexual education?"

Mesut blinked, and the faint burn of embarrassment caught up with him a moment later. He nodded, telling himself not to duck his head or try to cover his cheeks with his hands. He must seem professional; this was a rare opportunity, the chance to work with Dr. Wohlfahrt.

Though he still didn't understand what exactly that work entailed. There were rumors, of course. There were always rumors.

"Yes," he said when it became apparent that Dr. Wohlfahrt was waiting for verbal confirmation. "I've― I have."

Dr. Wohlfahrt nodded. "Of course, you will have further education and personal training with us. Some recommend starting out younger, but I think you will do fine, despite lack of any prior preparation. Fifteen is an optimal age in many ways. And the club did recommend you very highly."

"What did they recommend me for? If you don't mind me asking."

"Inter-personal relations." Dr. Wohlfahrt sat back, looking thoughtful. "That's how they phrased it, at least. They know I've been looking for someone to start up this program, now that the DFB finally approved my funding. We will be working in psychosensual therapy, which is very experimental still, but they've had success with it in Spain. Perhaps you've heard of Fernando Torres?"

"Their new physio," said Mesut. "The pay scandal, something about a breach of contracts and all. It was in the papers a couple weeks ago."

Dr. Wohlfahrt nodded. "Physio is the official term for it, though I believe the team calls him 'Companion.' That's what this field requires, essentially: a companion figure, someone who can be psychologist, masseuse, and lover. We are sexual beings, almost all of us, and the negative energies from a sexually-restrictive culture can and often do adversely affect performance. Significant others help, of course, but as the Spanish have discovered, a Companion is the best way to work out players' kinks and maximize potential. Because they are professionals, so they work with skill and discretion, as well as supervision and accountability, which is much better for everyone involved. It's all very logical."

Logical. To Dr. Wohlfahrt and other professionals in his business, maybe. Mesut found his head spinning, both from the information and the implications, because if he'd understand all that correctly, then it meant Dr. Wohlfahrt wanted him to―

"But what kind of, um," he began. Mesut looked down at the table. "What kind of training do you have to do to, um, become someone like Torres?"

"We have very discreet professionals from Spain coming to work with us, if you are concerned at all about the physical aspect," said Dr. Wohlfahrt. Mesut felt himself blush harder. "But I think you will find that it is as much psychology as sensuality. My colleagues in the Netherlands especially have worked extensively on this research. I am confident that we should be able to provide this service to the national team within the next four years―and I want you on board when that happens."

The certainty in his words made Mesut look up. "You think I could do this? Really?"

"I would not have flown out to Gelsenkirchen to talk to you otherwise. It's no small advantage that you are already familiar with the footballing world. You will need work, of course, but fortunately you are still very young."

He was. He was fifteen, already staring down a future that had closed its doors to him one by one. That lifelong dream of football would always be a dream now. But maybe he wouldn't have to leave this world altogether. Dr. Wohlfahrt was offering.

And it wouldn't be so different from being a physio or a masseuse, working in some other capacity at the club. With the team. It wasn't so unthinkable, was it? He'd spent his life trying to make a living from his body anyway. This was just putting it to a different use.

"But why me?" Mesut asked, that last bit of hesitance refusing to go away. "I've never done anything like this. You said I'll need work―"

"Just polishing," said Dr. Wohlfahrt dismissively. "You can come from any background, so long as you have the one quality absolutely essential to this work."

"But what is it?"

Dr. Wohlfahrt smiled at the perplexed look on Mesut's face.

"Charm," he said.

-

Philipp likes to tie him up.

Sometimes with bandages from the medicine cabinet. Sometimes the handcuffs or leather they keep just for this purpose. Other times it's the sleeves of Mesut's shirt, twisted over his head. And once, a €300 Burberry tie―already wrinkled, as if someone had used it to yank Philipp forward, and Mesut knew better than to ask.

Besides, Philipp doesn't talk much. Mesut is working on that―though often it feels like he's getting nowhere, because Philipp is always polite, and Mesut can't really explain why he spends hours over his psychology books for Philipp, except that Loew has asked him more than once to try to get through to the captain, and even that's not really an excuse. Not even if Loew sent an email about it. Not even if the upper management are worried. Because they always are, when it comes to the smart ones. The ambitious ones. Philipp knows that. So it's all a bit complicated.

But that's just the way it is with Philipp: complicated.

Philipp's knees grip Mesut's hips, fingernails digging into his shoulders. Sweat beads on the tips of his hair, his forehead, eyes half-closed and thighs straining as he rides Mesut's cock. Mesut flexes his wrists, feels the leather straps digging into his skin and tells himself to stay still. Just a bit longer. It always starts like this, Philipp on top, setting the pace. But inevitably―

On the next stroke Mesut tilts his hips, just the slightest of angles, meets Philipp halfway. Philipp swears, fists his own cock, a hitch in his rhythm then faster, losing control. Then he's reaching for the ties, loosens them. Lets Mesut flip them over so Philipp is on his back.

Leather is replaced with Philipp's hands, vice-like around his wrists. Pinning his arms down to hold him in place, even as Philipp wraps his legs around Mesut's waist, digs in his heels, begging for faster, harder, more. Their sweat mingle together on his skin, blotchy red and bruised, and Philipp comes apart curled beneath him, shaking through the aftershocks.

Afterwards Philipp lets Mesut clean him up and work out the knots in his muscles, Mesut's hands soft on his shoulders and neck. This, too, is part of the ritual. Validation and release. Because Philipp needs the fight as much as he wants the control, and more than that, perhaps, he needs the let-down as a form of peace.

It's taken Mesut nearly two years to figure out just this much. Sometimes it feels like he'll never really understand Philipp Lahm, but he works with what he has.

"Heard that Sami's going to Spain," Philipp says as Mesut rubs lotion over the back of his neck. A sharp, herbal scent rises from his fingertips. "You gonna miss him?"

Mesut draws his thumbs in a slow circle. "We'll all miss him. He's a nice guy."

"I don't know him as well as you do."

"You overestimate how well I know him."

"But would you go with him, if he asked?" Philipp turns his head, gives Mesut a look over his shoulder. "You would, wouldn't you?"

Mesut can feel the tell-tale tension in Philipp's shoulders. This isn't just about him, and the faint bitterness underlying Philipp's tone confirms his suspicions. This is a chance.

"You're projecting your own feelings onto me, I think," he says. Better to go the direct route with Philipp, because asking, _Is there something you wanted to talk about?_ only gets him a polite, _No._

Philipp smiles thinly. "And you're only asking because Loew asked you to."

"I'm asking because you brought it up." Mesut presses his knuckles against a knotted muscle in Philipp's back, eliciting a faint grunt from the other man. "You're very tense."

"Hardly new," says Philipp, voice dry. "And if you must know, he asked me to run away with him. Four years ago. To Spain."

Mesut waits, Philipp's breathing gone quiet.

"Who's he?"

"Loew can tell you if you repeat what I just said to him," is Philipp's only reply. His tone says the conversation is over. Mesut bites back a sigh, defeated.

Later, as he's tidying up, Mesut finds one of the leather ties fallen behind the bed. He goes to put it away and ends up sitting on the floor instead. Thumb rubbing circles into the soft leather. Bruises purpling gently on his wrists. _You would, wouldn't you?_ Philipp had said, and Mesut wants to ask, _So why didn't you?_

He clenches his hands into fists—because it's fingers that tie, not string.

A clock blinks red on his nightstand, and he thinks of tomorrow, the next day, and all the days ahead.

-

He still remembers, can't forget. They were running, chasing a frisbee through a field overgrown with broken fences and flowers bearing felt-soft thorns. Mesut had his eyes on the prize and too much belief in his own body, only thirteen, just beginning to bloom into himself, wild like the field and the wind that sped the frisbee beyond his fingertips. He saw the fence from the corner of his eye and jumped―almost there, so close, so close he could feel the plastic disc against his palm―

The earth dropped away a good meter on the other side, crumbling wood and nails. He twisted mid-air. Saw the landing packed and littered with rock, a jolt of terror in his throat and then he was grounded. Dirt under his fingernails. His left foot was numb.

Manuel was the first one to reach him, descending the ledge with more care than Mesut and helping him up with gentle hands.

"I think the frisbee went over there," said Mesut, gesturing at the tangled grass.

"We’ll find it later." Manuel’s fingers dug into his bicep. "How’s your leg? Can you walk?"

Mesut nodded, put his right foot down and felt steady. "I’m fine, you can let go," he told Manuel. Mesut put his left foot down and a split second later he was tumbled on the ground again, his fists planted in the earth. The pain was a bullet in his foot. He was winded, gasping, blinking back bright spots of blackness cut with tears.

Manuel called for help. By the time one of the trainers finally got there with a handful of EMTs in tow, Mesut had grown intimate with the jointed pain, seen his ankle swell red and a shadow of blood seeping along his sock. He lay on his back just trying to breathe, lungs laboring against the panic that had set in despite Manuel’s reassurances, his hand warm in Mesut’s, and Mesut gripped it desperately because he knew― He was only thirteen but he’d seen injuries, and he saw now in a flash the surgeries and the therapy and his mother looking on while the doctor shook his head no and that would be it. He wasn’t ready for this to be over before it’d even begun, but that would be all.

"It’s all right," the trainer kept saying as they put a blanket around him and stretchered him off, "it’s all right, kid. We’ve got you. You’re fine."

It took two of them working in tandem to pry his fingers from Manuel’s hand. He cried in the ambulance and wouldn't answer the EMTs when they asked how much it hurt, was he bleeding anywhere else, could he feel his legs?

That wasn't the problem. They didn't understand. He curled his fingers in on themselves but found nothing solid, nothing to hold, and that―that was worse than pain.

-

When he gets home to Essen, after Munich and after Stuttgart, there’s a message on his answering machine.

_Hello. This is Jose Mourinho. Real Madrid―well, I have heard very highly of you, and if you can I wish to meet you this week or talk on the phone. I have an offer for you. Think about it._

He thinks about it. He wonders how Mourinho got his personal number, but mostly he thinks about Madrid. He thinks of Philipp, thinks of Manuel and Sami and Spain and being able to stay―in Madrid. And Madrid isn't home, but it's somewhere to be, and that's a start.

Dr. Wohlfahrt has been training a new boy anyway, a sweet-faced kid named Mario with charm enough to spare. Soon it will be this kid's job to schlepp around Germany, week to week. But Mesut will be with a club. He'll have a place. A city and people that will grow familiar, too, given enough time.

And he'd like that, Mesut realizes with something like surprise. He'd like that very much.

-

His hands are steady when he picks up the phone the next morning and calls Mourinho back.


End file.
